


The Crown Must Always Win

by gallantrejoinder



Series: Bill Potts: Princess of Gallifrey [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe - Princess Diaries Fusion, Drama, F/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-16 10:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12341043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: Clara's job is simple. She protects the interests of the Gallifreyan crown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is set DURING The Gallifreyan Princess Diaries, and will make a lot more sense if you've read that first. This takes place just as Bill's outed by the press. Directly inspired by [this scene](http://lejazzhot.tumblr.com/post/69306136794/badass-joe) from The Princess Diaries 2 (and borrows a wee bit of dialogue).

Bill is alone and vulnerable, and Clara’s been cursing herself since the second the news broke for it.

Clara should have been there. The _king_ should have been there. They were both out on official business when the whole world decided to make Bill a target, because of _course_ they were. They always are, when it matters most.

Neither of them got the news until well after it had broken. An hour on the internet is worth a month in the real world, in Clara’s line of work. An hour with headlines plastering Bill’s sexuality all over the web, as if any sixteen-year-old’s sexuality should be a source of speculation. It makes Clara’s blood boil the more she thinks of it, but the anger is something she’ll need to deal with later. In the meantime, she needs to focus on the king and Bill. They’re all that matters.

He's been speechless since it happened, and sits in the car beside her in shellshock. He’s gone all quiet, like he does when he’s too angry to be any good to anyone. She’s not going to let it distract her from her job though, not going to let herself feel heartache for him. She’s spent too much of her heart on him, and it’s not worth dwelling on at this point. That’s what comes of who they both are.

Her phone chimes with a text, and she checks it quickly, aware that only two or three people can access her at a time like this.

“Nardole says he dropped her off in her room. Looked like she needed some time alone,” she informs the king.

“She shouldn’t be alone,” he says, fingers twitching with agitation and impatience. “She needs her family.”

“Just –” Clara sighs. “Be careful.”

He turns to look at her, searching her eyes in that way that always leaves her wondering exactly what he’s looking for. Finally, he nods.

“I’m always careful,” he grumbles, quietly.

Clara doesn’t reply, knowing that even that tiny hint of teasing is all the reassurance she’s going to get when it comes to his state of emotions.

They reach the consulate in record time, and exit the car to stride towards Bill’s room without hesitation. The halls have never seemed quite this long before, but Clara doesn’t complain, sensing the king growing more and more tense as they get closer. At Bill’s hallway, Clara steps back, to allow him some privacy with his granddaughter, giving him a nod of encouragement.

Unexpectedly, he makes an abortive movement with his hand, as if to reach for her – but then he’s gone, as if he’d never paused.

Clara doesn’t let herself wait on the threshold, but turns to walk back the way she came.

She barely makes it a few steps, though, before a harried-looking woman in black stops her.

“Ms Oswald! I’m sorry to bother you, but – there’s a situation.”

“I know, I know. We’re working on it. The king is in with Bill right now.”

The woman shakes her head, looking apologetic and frantic all at once. “No, I’m afraid that’s not it. There’s an intruder on the grounds. She’s currently locked in the west entry sitting room, until we can move her. She’s demanding to see the king.”

A trickle of ice runs down Clara’s spine at the woman’s words. She takes a moment to clench her teeth before daring to ask what she already knows.

“And who is the intruder?” Her voice is soft and dangerous.

The agent bites her lip. “Her ladyship, Missy Koschei. We – we’re not sure how exactly she got in, but we’re working on –”

“That’s all right,” Clara says, eerily calm. “Don’t worry about that just now. Could you … Would you take me to her?”

The woman hesitates, but –

“Yes, of course, ma’am.”

Being led towards the woman who Clara knows is responsible for the king’s pain – not to mention that of poor Bill, only _sixteen years old_ , and a bloody ray of sunshine as far as Clara’s concerned – it makes her fury morph into something stranger than Clara’s used to. It isn’t calm, but neither it is raging. It’s the kind of fury that knows it is about to be satisfied.

At the locked door, they stop, the agent shifting nervously.

“I’ll go in alone,” Clara says to her.

“I’m not sure that’s –”

“That was not a request, agent,” she continues flatly, not even bothering to turn and look at the woman.

Sensing, perhaps, the magnitude of Clara’s anger, the agent wisely turns and walks away without another word. Clara pushes the door open.

Missy is waiting inside, feet propped up on an antique table, nearly toppling the delicate thing. She smiles as Clara enters, revealing a row of teeth in a display more akin to a threat than an expression of friendliness.

“Hello, Clara. Long time,” she says.

Clara doesn’t respond, simply staring her down.

Missy rolls her eyes and stands, carelessly wandering around the room as she begins to monologue.

“Oh, all right. I was a wee bit naughty. A girl’s got to have some fun! Really, it’s all his fault for getting her involved in the first place. Those paparazzi are vicious. He should have known better, but alas, he didn’t listen to me –”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Clara snarls.

“Temper, Miss Oswald!” Missy smiles benignly at her, or what passes for benignly with someone so awful.

Clara moves in close, knowing that she will have one opportunity to speak her mind before ensuring that Missy is never seen again anywhere near the king or Bill. Missy remains where she stands, leaning against a cabinet containing priceless silverware, just close to tipping it.

Clara leans in.

“My job,” she says, softly, “is to protect the crown. To make sure that no harm comes to the crown. And to step in, as no one else may, when someone toys with the crown’s emotions. Do you understand?”

Missy doesn’t drop that irritating smirk of hers for a second, and Clara holds herself rigid in response to it, refusing to give Missy a single hint that she’s gotten to them.

“I think the whole _world_ understands how well you cater to the crown’s emotions, dear,” Missy says, conversationally.

Clara counts to ten.

But it changes nothing of what she says.

“If you hurt either of them, _ever_ again, you will answer directly to me. And I would beg you to remember that I hold diplomatic immunity in forty-six countries, Missy. Including Skaro.”

Missy doesn’t give her an inch. “Well. If you’re begging …”

She leaves the sentence unfinished, and makes to leave the room before Clara can even call the guards.

Clara lets her, aware that with such a poor comeback on Missy’s part, Clara’s won this round. God help her, she’ll win the war too.

Her phone beeps suddenly, startling her out of her spell.

She picks it up, seeing an incoming call from an unknown number. Almost certainly the king, then. She frowns, putting it to her ear.

“Clara here.”

“Clara.” The king sounds strained, terrified in a way she’s rarely heard before. “Clara, I can’t find Bill. She’s not here. I’ve looked in all the usual spots, but she’s – Clara, _I can’t find Bill_.”


	2. Chapter 2

The desperation in his tone sends Clara’s blood running cold for the second time that day. For a moment, wildly, the awful thought occurs that Missy could have –

But no, that’s not her style. Missy is a manipulator. She’s not violent, certainly not in the traditional way. She plays with her food. She makes it scared. If Bill’s gone – it may be because of Missy, but only because Missy _convinced_ her to leave.

It takes every ounce of self-control Clara’s ever possessed not to drop the phone, walk out, and commit a crime even Skaro wouldn’t protect her against.

She takes a deep breath instead.

“All right, so she’s gone. I’ve just run into Missy, no surprises, she’s behind the outing. I think she must have gotten to Bill somehow, we’ll work out the logistics of it later.”

“Missy? How – She –” The king sounds thunderstruck, his noisy footsteps stuttering over the phone. Somehow, after all this time and everything she’s done – it still hurts him when she betrays their childhood friendship.

“Your majesty,” Clara says, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Bill. This is about Bill. Now, think. What are you going to _do_?”

There’s a pause on the line, and Clara hears his footsteps cease.

His voice comes from behind her when he speaks.

“I’m going to find my granddaughter,” he says, and Clara turns to him without startling at how quickly he’s run himself across the consulate to get to her.

“Good,” she says, unruffled. “Good start. How?”

“Call in all the agents I can. Put the place on lockdown. Cancel the ball –”

“No, not the ball. You’re going to find her, right?”

“Right.”

“You can’t cancel it. She needs to make her speech, or did you do all those dancing lessons for nothing?”

He considers for a moment, and nods. “The ball is going ahead as planned.”

“And?”

“We put the word out with absolute secrecy that Bill is somewhere in the city without her phone. No mention of running away. Nardole can access security cameras … We tell Romana, but none of the other guests. I’ll work on talking to Heather, and you’ll go with Nardole. Make sure he doesn’t try to do it all himself, we don’t have time for ego right now. Everything goes ahead as planned.”

Despite the situation, Clara almost has to resist the urge to smile. This is the king she chose to follow.

“Got it,” she says, and wastes no more time before calling in the consulate’s agents to brief them on the situation.

Over the next three hours, a storm settles over London, and Clara tries not to take it as an omen. The thunder outside growls with the kind of ferocity they don’t tend to really see in Gallifrey, and it makes her uneasy. Only the highest level security clearance agents have been informed of the situation – a couple of dozen are out in the downpour searching, while the remaining twenty or so remain at the palace to ensure the king’s safety, and that of the arriving guests, too.

It’s getting close to the speech now, far too close for Clara’s liking. She’s dressed for the occasion, smiling and greeting dignitaries from all over, but on the inside she wants nothing more than to cry, feeling as lost as she used to feel when her mum passed away. She’s nothing if not professional, though, so she clings to that, and never falters.

Romana has been informed, as per the king’s orders. Across the room, she glances questioningly at Clara, and Clara shakes her head in response. Romana purses her lips and turns away, as if nothing’s happened.

Heather has arrived, in a car sent around specially by the king. He’d insisted on it, sure that bringing Bill’s – well, not quite her girlfriend just yet, but her _special someone_ – to the ball would, somehow, draw Bill back to the consulate. Clara finds herself hoping he’s right.

Nardole hasn’t stopped working for a second since he got the news. As Clara continues to pretend that nothing’s wrong and her heart isn’t beating fast with fear, mingling like a pro with the king’s guests, he sits upstairs, surrounding by wires and screens, hardly saying a word to anybody. Sweat pools in her hands, and she discreetly tries to dry them on a handkerchief purloined from one of the staff, unwilling to allow even a clammy handshake to show her ruffled nerves.

Her phone, discreetly tucked into a pocket in the waist of her dress, vibrates suddenly. Smiling and nodding, she makes her way across the room towards privacy, refusing to glance at it until she knows she’s alone.

Once in the hall, she opens the text, sent from Nardole.

_I’ve got her. She’s okay. On my way to pick her up now. Let him know_.

Clara’s heart stutters over a beat, and a wave of relief crashes over her so strongly that for a moment her knees feel weak. _Let him know_.

Refusing to stop for anyone or anything, Clara makes her way towards the king’s study, where he’s retreated in order to stop himself from saying something unforgiveable to any of his guests in his anxiety. Well, the situation is more like Clara had put him there, but – same difference, she figures.

She bursts in without knocking, and is sure she looks a state – eyes wild and hair just slightly out of place. He looks up at her from his desk questioningly, fear well-contained, yet ever-present in his eyes.

“They found her. Nardole’s picking her up. She’s okay.”

There’s a beat, a moment where his eyes simple widen, and nothing else changes.

And then he’s pushing back the chair, and striding towards her, and enfolding her in his arms.

He doesn’t do this. Not often, at least, and never with her. The dancing is – an unknown quantity, she hasn’t analysed it yet, isn’t ready to, so that doesn’t count. Clara knows that his touch aversion is a fact of his personality, they warn all newcomers to the business of royalty of it. As if anyone would dare to touch the king.

And yet he is holding her, and her arms move without her permission to wrap around his skinny waist. He holds her so fiercely, so tightly – the relief is evident in every angle of him, pressed against her without hesitation or tenseness. As if only she can take the burden of his need for reassurance, as if no one else can provide what he needs right now.

“Thank you,” he whispers, close to her ear. She fights the urge to shiver at the feeling of his breath against her skin, this unexpected closeness.

“Thank Nardole,” she replies. “And come to the lessons room. We’ll meet her there.”

He nods, and pulls back. It is, illogically, much colder without him than it ought to be.

They make good time towards the lessons room – perhaps too good, as they’ve a while to wait before Bill arrives. Nardole calls to tell them she’s coming from Tottenham, and is apparently soaking wet, which Clara knows they won’t have time to hide very well before her speech is due. No doubt that’ll make headlines, but those kind are preferable to sexuality rumours. They’ll deal with whatever comes.

They’re both sitting on the long, uncomfortable couches, across from one another, like this is just another meeting. Clara keeps checking her phone for updates, watching the time tick closer to Bill’s speech.

“I meant it, Clara,” the king says, suddenly.

She looks up at him, confused.

“Meant what?”

“Thank you,” he repeats, simply.

“Well, I meant it too. Thank Nardole.”

“Not just for this. For it all.”

He looks at her, really _looks_ – not in the way he does most often, where he’s trying to figure her out. He looks as if he _knows_.

Clara breaks their gaze, unsettled, checking her phone again.

“Well. You’ll just have to make it up to me, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, and it’s too vulnerable-sounding for her not to say something.

“Your majesty –” She stands, beginning to speak, but he interrupts.

“You know I hate the title,” he says, mirroring her. Unlike her, he manages to move forward, coming to stand before her, towering like an unsteady blade of grass.

“But it is,” she replies, gently as she’s able. “It is your title. You have duties. Your granddaughter –”

They’re skirting dangerously close to territory she’s not sure she wants to enter, and she doesn’t know how to stop it. She takes his hands.

The door opens without preamble, and Bill steps inside, nervous and unsure.

The king turns towards his granddaughter, dropping Clara’s hands, and gives Bill every bit of love he has inside him in one spectacular hug.

Clara thinks that she ought to feel like she’s intruding, but it just seems right. Bill’s face is tucked into his shoulder while she heaves a shuddering sigh, and then she steps back.

The next few minutes should be nerve-wracking, but after the night they’ve had, Clara finds it easy to maintain a professional air for Bill’s sake. Bill looks sick at the thought of her speech, but is committed to it, which is a plus. The king won’t ask whether she intends to accept or decline the crown, so Clara doesn’t either, though her need for control over the situation sets off one or two alarms in the back of her head.

But she needn’t worry.

Bill steps onto the podium, before the microphones and cameras, and stutters through the finest speech Clara’s ever heard. Something inside her glows with pride as Bill faces down reporters, dignitaries, politicians, and the rest of the world, and says _yes._ She will be the leader they have asked her to be.

She steps away to polite applause, and more than a few smiling faces in the crowd. The king is quick to step up to the plate and take over, but not before he gives Bill a squeeze on her shoulder, showing his approval. One of the staff whisks Bill away to get ready for the dance while the king is still asking questions – and once he finishes, Clara fills in time by making up a couple of official statements on the spot.

Well, she’d hardly been given much notice. And no one said she isn’t reckless when she needs to be.

Finally, the press conference ends. Clara makes her way to the ballroom, quietly conferring with Nardole and the other staff on her phone to make sure the king and Bill are ready to proceed. Luckily, the night seems to be back on track, with no more deviations necessary, as the two are ready to enter whenever Clara gives the go-ahead.

The room fills quickly, and they don’t need to wait long before Clara nods to the guards at the central doors, who open them with little fanfare to let the king and Bill inside. A hush falls over the crowd, and the orchestra strike up their instruments as the royals enter, while Clara and the other guests bow their heads in respect. Bill and the king nod to one another before turning away to dance with their partners.

Now all that remains is for them to begin, so the other dancers may join them.

Except –

The king isn’t walking towards his dance partner, the prime minister.

Clara looks at Romana, panicked, but Romana only rolls her eyes in response, as if she expected this. Bill isn’t paying attention, seeking out her own partner. Looking back towards the king, Clara’s stunned to realise he’s walking towards _her_.

The whole room falls away, for an endless moment, and all she can see is the look on his face. Some strange mix of determination, fear – and, impossibly, _love_.

He holds his hand out to her, asking without words for her permission. The room rushes back in, and Clara knows that there will probably be consequences for this.

But when it comes to him, she’s never really cared about consequences.

She takes his hand.

She can feel the murmurs following them, and it makes the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Rumours and gossip inform a surprisingly large amount of the work she does, but that doesn’t mean she’s used to being the subject of them. Glancing over at Bill, she sees that Heather has finally made an appearance, and they’re dancing happily together, oblivious to the world. If only she could manage to be.

The king’s hand is pressed against her own as they turn, switching direction to turn once more. His thumb strokes the side of her palm for a moment, and instantly, her eyes find his again.

He looks at her with an intensity she finds herself matching, unable to look away now that she’s found him again. Few have been the subject of this gaze, she knows.

She wonders, sometimes, about the queen – his wife. A woman formidable enough to marry him, yet so incredibly different from him in every way. Clara is not much like her, not from what Clara knows of her from biographies and archival footage, anyway. They do have one thing in common, though, and he stands before Clara now, pulling her in close for the final round of the dance.

No, she isn’t like River Song, exuberant and proud and breath-takingly intelligent as she was. Clara’s much too similar to the king for all that, in her warring desire for control and freedom. His equal in all.

His hand at her waist is gentle and firm all at once, refusing to let her falter, and reassuring her that she cannot, with him holding her. His eyes are a thing she doesn’t often let herself study, and she commits the blue-grey tones to memory, afraid suddenly that tonight is _only_ for tonight.

She tightens her grip on his shoulder, and the song comes to an end.

The floor is filled with couples, now. She hadn’t noticed. They clap politely for the orchestra before a second round of music commences.

Bill and Heather have disappeared, but Clara isn’t planning on telling them off for it just yet. They _are_ only sixteen, after all.

The king takes her hand, suddenly, and tugs her towards one of the side entrances, through whirling couples and indignant servers balancing trays of champagne. Clara opens her mouth to ask, but thinks better of it. After a particularly close call with a security guard gently attempting to guide one of the guests away from the king, they finally make it outside and into the hallway that opens up to the balconies, laid out in all their splendour in the dewy twilight.

He drops her hand, looking embarrassed, and she smiles, suddenly sure of herself for the first time in hours.

“Come on,” she says, and begins walking towards the private area of the consulate. He walks at her side, glancing at her occasionally, not saying anything. She doesn’t need him to. The security personnel they pass by don’t dare give them any curious looks, but she can sense that there’ll be gossip later. She finds, happily, that she doesn’t really care.

They reach the lessons room, and she shuts the door behind them. “Do you remember when we danced in here?” she asks, turning towards him.

He stands in the middle of the room, hands laced together, like a schoolboy who thinks he’s about to get into trouble.

“Yes,” he says, cautiously.

“Why did you dance with me?”

She holds her breath, waiting for his answer. His eyes dip to the floor, shy now, when he was so confident in front of the whole world before.

“I …” He clears his throat. “I wanted to.”

“Oh, you wanted to,” she says, almost teasing. “Why?”

He looks up, now, and his gaze is gentled by longing. “Because it was you, Clara Oswald.”

And that is an answer to steal her breath away.

“Don’t you want to know why I wanted to dance with you?” She eventually manages to choke out.

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Because it was you. It’s always been you.” _Even when it shouldn’t have been. Even when it’s impossible_.

He makes his way towards her slowly, giving her every chance to take back her words, to brush aside his. She doesn’t.

He raises his right hand to her cheek, and she closes her eyes, reaches up to hold onto it like a lifeline. He waits for her to let go. She doesn’t.

And then he is leaning in to kiss her, and she is reaching for him, and Clara forgets that there is anything outside of this moment. He pulls back, eyes searching hers for regret, waiting for her to say no.

She pulls him back in and kisses him without hesitation, saying _yes, yes, to this, and to it all_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bill's presence in the Doctor's life inadvertently leads to the end of literal years of pining from him and Clara, go figure.
> 
> Let me know what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed generously from The Crown on Netflix.
> 
> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)


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